


Some Parts Of The Continent

by bibliothekara, melliyna



Category: Law & Order: UK, Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Episode Related, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliothekara/pseuds/bibliothekara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/melliyna/pseuds/melliyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark Lord of 10 Downing Street is neither, now. So who does an ex-Dark Lord confide in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Parts Of The Continent

**Author's Note:**

> a) Inspired by the awesomeness of Harriet Walter & Peter Capaldi, by fannish headcanon discussions between me and Lil, and by our firm belief that Law & Order: UK and The Thick of It take place within the same universe. So obviously, that means Malcolm and Natalie are old friends.
> 
> b) Directly spun off Armando Iannucci's comments that Malcolm at the beginning of 3x08 looks "like a man who'd been crying for two weeks". 
> 
> c)Plays a bit fast and loose with the timelines of LOUK and TToI; takes place between Thick of It 3x07 and 3x08, quite obviously, but after 5x06 in the LOUK timeline. 
> 
> d) Title from Charles Darwin on the subject of crying: “Englishmen rarely cry, except under the pressure of the acutest grief; whereas in some parts of the Continent the men shed tears much more readily and freely.”

Natalie Chandler has never seen Malcolm Tucker cry. Not once, in the 20 (25?)  years they've known each other. She's not sure he's physically capable of it. Oh, he's capable of the emotions that would usually produce tears in lesser beings. It's that he reacts differently; if you knew him long enough, you learned the signals.

Natalie's always wondered how she stayed long enough to learn those signals. When, and why on earth, she started to like him.

Usually a one night stand, no matter how fantastic the sex (and yes, it was bloody fantastic) would not lead the Nat she'd been to stay. One glorious night, one bacon and eggs the next morning, and that should have been it for them. 

Except, somehow Malcolm decided that she'd been a good drinking buddy, and a good lay, so maybe this young DS on her way up the Met ladder would make a good liaison in other ways. Nothing dubious, no toes past the ethical line, of course. Just a friendly ear to the ground.

Malcolm would never say it out loud, but she knows those true friendly ears have been few and far between for him. His whole life. So they've been drinking together, fighting together, and talking together ever since. Arguing Tudor history ( _Fucking wish I could behead some of these omnifucking cunts Nat)_ ,  popular music ( _all bollocks after  1961, fucking teenagers and their fucking insipid love songs and fucking dance music_ ) and the value of public  policy ( _fucking useless the lot of em. Omnishambles all round - get 'em down to one of your housing estates and they'd crumble into a fucking ball_ ).

Sometimes Natalie Chandler finds it incredible that she's managed to find a man more cynical than any copper she's ever known. And yet, he'll always sit and listen to her suggestions with patience and respect.

Because the thing is, Malcolm actually _does_ care. About mothers, workers, children, about people. Just not anyone in his chosen profession, who tend to be divided between "useless bastards" and "pox-ridden hellspawn". It's odd, though very Malcolm. How he still manages to keep caring, she doesn't know. There are times she reads the papers and wonders how he survives; and, always, whether this will be the time he doesn't.  
  
When it happens, he drinks scotch in her kitchen at four am and plots. Without crying.  
  
It's not that he sees crying as a sign of weakness. The night Matt was killed...she doesn't like to remember much of that night, but she does remember Malcolm. Stopping only a moment on his way over  to put a tail on Ronnie (that she hadn't known at the time, but it's not a surprise), and holding her shoulder as she wept. Cursing the gunman, the legal system, the world at large; but never once telling her "don't cry." 

There were greater sins in Malcolm's book than sadness. Failure to act, failure to predict, failure to know one's  self...basically, all the things that broke his heart over that minister at DoSAC.

 _(The one he very rarely referred to by name; the one he claimed to despair of. And yet, the one he never seemed to stop talking about.)_  
  
These other weaknesses pained Malcolm far greater, than surrendering to tears.

But the fact is, she's still never seen him do it.  
  
Not when his dad died. That had called for a bottle of cheap California champagne and the best chicken tikka masala Clapham could produce. They ate, and drank, and Mal told her stories that made her laugh, stories that raised the hair on her neck, stories that she just quietly sat and nodded through.  
  
Not when Pamela left him for that prat of a reporter. That night, he hadn't even come over; his communication had consisted of several profane text messages, and (indirectly) the bartender dialing her number when Malcolm started threatening to run the Tory in the bar through with a snooker cue.  
  
Not now, with the last 15 years of his life crumbling down around his ears.

She'd seen it on the telly, of course (seen it coming weeks before that, if she was honest). Natalie tried to text him, and got no response. Tried to call Sam; ended up comforting the younger woman over the phone, while the latter was still sitting in that bloody pantry Malcolm took so much pride in.  
  
And then the man showed up at her door of his own volition. Sodden in his black trench coat, but from rain only. Now sitting at her kitchen table, gulping her good Glenfiddich like it was wine from a box.  
  
Still not crying. Just sitting quietly, explaining Steve Fleming, explaining Julius and Nicola (that was the name) and  the day that had been the day.  
  
Not cursing any of them, either. That's how she knew it was bad.  
  
At some time around 4AM, he looked over at the clock, and then at her. Saying nothing.  
  
Malcolm Tucker, speechless? This was unnerving. "What is it, Malcolm?"  
  
"Dunno if I can find my way through this one, Nat."  
  
"You will."  
  
"Will I?"  
  
And he looked down, staring through the cut glass of his tumbler. Inhaled deeply through his beaky nose. Something that sounded like a sob.  
  
But Natalie Chandler still has never seen Malcolm Tucker cry. That's the story she will always tell the world, and damn anybody who'll try to say different.

***fin***


End file.
